The Revenge of the Dwarves

  “Because not only did I construct the island for Bandilor and Veltaga. I built the machines as well,” he whispered. He repeated the account he had given to Rodario. “Through my actions countless dwarves have lost their lives. It is my fault. More will die. The next device is on its way.” He asked for a glass of water. “You must pronounce sentence on me. I will accept any punishment.”

  The marquee buzzed.

  Tungdil went over to Gandogar to ask for clemency for Furgas.

  The high king bent forward. “Do not worry. I am not seeking his life,” he said quietly. Then, raising his voice: “We shall not hold you responsible, magister technicus. Your genius and your injured soul were both abused by the dwarf-haters. Our revenge shall be against them, not you. You were their tool; they used you for their malign plans. But we shall never forget the countless victims. We demand of you that you do everything in your power to stop further dread events. For now you have our understanding. Do not disappoint us.”

  “You see? Like I said: they can tell the difference. Now be brave and tell them everything,” Rodario said gently, brushing over Gandogar’s threat. “They won’t hurt you.”

  Furgas sobbed. “I… built the machines,” he repeated, in despair.

  “We have pardoned you,” repeated Gandogar.

  “No, there are more machines, though.” He told the story through his tears of the malformed hybrid creatures he had adapted, constructed with his own hands. The kings and queens sat thunderstruck. They listened, horrified and enthralled at one and the same time. It defied imagination. “I am to blame that they are rampaging through Girdlegard, killing, maiming and bringing destruction.”

  Tungdil watched the elf princess. Apart from himself she was the only one whose countenance was not a mask of disgust and fascination. On the contrary, she seemed glad. She was assuming, as was he, that she now understood the significance of the pit at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake. She turned her head abruptly and looked him in the eyes. He felt she could read his thoughts. “Let us look on the bright side of Master Furgas’s report: it means there is a new magic source in Girdlegard.” Rejalin’s voice rang out clear and true. “And it seems the unslayables do not know where it is. Those two thirdlings will be clever enough to keep it hidden from them, so that they can hold sway over them and keep them dependent.”

  “Of course.” Tungdil understood at once what she meant. “The magi of Girdlegard left nothing to chance when selecting their own prime locations. They chose to be within the magic force fields: their power source. When the magi left the fields they would find their magic diminished after a few spells,” he explained. “Andôkai the Tempestuous and my own foster-father Lot-Ionan once told me how it all worked. Only by using the power of the magic source were they able to perform their incredible feats with words, gestures and immense concentration.” He stopped to catch his breath. “I assume these machine monsters function by the same principle. They will have to reload with the magic, never mind what complicated mechanics they employ.”

  Gandogar slammed his fist down on the table. “At last! A weak point!” he exclaimed with relief. “Magister Furgas! Where exactly is this source?”

  Furgas shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Somewhere at the bottom of Weyurn’s lake.”

  “You’ve no idea? A clue? Some island in the vicinity?” Isika gave an agonized groan. “By Palandiell, get thinking, man! It’s you we have to thank for this whole ghastly plague!”

  “Most of my islands float, Queen Isika,” Queen Wey came to his rescue. “Even if he had noted one of them it wouldn’t help us.”

  “Then,” said Tungdil Goldhand slowly, “we must bring up the island together with its thirdlings and just ask them.”

  “We’ll be with you there.” Gandogar grinned. “For a cause such as this even dwarves shall take to water and defy the curse of Elria.” He looked at Queen Wey. “This is a matter for our folk, Your Majesty. I shall send you a contingent of my best warriors, dwarves of untarnished reputation without the slightest shred of a thirdling connection. They will be glad to fill the gaps in the ranks of your own army to make good the losses sustained in the Paland massacre. The island of the thirdlings will be taken by storm. And the magic source will be protected.”

  Queen Wey inclined her head in agreement.

  “I suggest we retire now and convene again in the morning for the last time. Then the groups will leave and do what has to be done,” announced King Bruron. “At long last we have an opportunity to do something about the dire threats that paralyze our native land. Palandiell will protect us.”

  “May I help alleviate the shock and worry?” offered Rodario, bowing deeply. “I invite the mighty rulers this evening to attend an exclusive premiere performance in the Curiosum. The production is an exquisite comedy which should restore some laughter into these serious times. If we lose the ability to laugh, we have lost everything.”

  Tungdil turned to Ireheart. “Your brother in spirit. Another who enjoys a joke.”

  “Nobody tells them like I do,” the warrior replied quietly.

  Rodario grinned. “Entrance will of course be free of charge. I shall not discourage you, however, from making a small donation to reward the troupe for their skill and artistry.”

  To his surprise the monarchs promised to attend. It would be the most important performance of his entire life.

  Tungdil, Ireheart and Goda had found a big room near the square where Bruron’s new palace was being built and the assembly marquees stood. The undergroundlings were staying in the same house. The landlord was a little more puzzled by them than by the dwarves, now a familiar sight.

  They were brought a decent meal and a large jug of beer.

  Goda was getting a lesson from the warrior twin about standing firm in battle. Boïndil was showing her the various methods of sweeping an opponent off his feet with the edge of a shield.

  “You have to make yourself heavy,” he explained, ramming his own shield against hers. There was a loud crash and the dwarf-woman retreated two paces. “Make yourself heavy, I said!” he scolded.

  “But I had my whole weight on the floorboards,” she protested.

  “Standing firm is a skill.” He waved her back into position. “But it’s more than just having broad feet and sturdy thighs. Stand so that your center of gravity is between your two feet, then bend your knees slightly and bring your head in and down.” He demonstrated. “Now try to push me over.”

  Goda lifted her shield, took a run-up and slammed against her instructor. The noise was ear-splitting.

  Boïndil didn’t budge. “That’s what I meant by making yourself heavy. It’s important to be able to withstand an opponent’s attack—an orc in a fury, if need be.” He rubbed his belly. “And they’re twice as heavy as me.” He tapped her shield. “Try again. We’ll practice all night if we have to.”

  “Ho, stop there,” called Tungdil, who was writing notes on the discussion in the assembly. There were still some puzzles. Speaking to Balba Chiselstrike, the only one to escape from Paland, had not thrown up any clues. She couldn’t recall any of the elf runes on the wheeled monster. Even Furgas could not remember any elaborate runic designs. But Tungdil knew the rune was there. Each of the creatures had been carrying one. Now he was annoyed not to have peace and quiet to work things out. “I’m trying to think. How can I when you two are carrying on like a couple of Vangas?”

  “What are you trying to work out? It’s time for fighting now, not thinking, Scholar.” Ireheart’s eyes were blazing. “We haven’t found any orcs yet but these machines are quite something.” He whirled his shield around. “Ha! I’m itching to measure my skills against one of the undergroundlings!”

  “Haven’t you already done that?” Tungdil remarked. “You lost, didn’t you?”

  “That wasn’t a proper fight, for Vraccas’s sake. That was like trying to catch an eel.” He gave himself a shake. “When I say fight I mean axes and blades and heavy weapons. Crashing and
clattering. I don’t really think they’re related to us.”

  The way he said it, he’d already made up his mind: dismissive of them. Tungdil looked up. “They are dwarves. Nothing can change that.”

  “Well, they see themselves as brothers to those orcs.” Goda’s answer was too swift. It seemed the two of them had already been discussing this during their combat exercises. “Their god created them at the same time. What was it they call him?”

  “Ubar,” Tungdil supplied. He put his arm on the back of the chair, his expression reproachful. “I’m glad you two agree about something for once. But you sound just like the elf princess.”

  Ireheart made a face. “Scholar. We can’t make common cause with the undergroundlings. They’re taller than us, they fight differently and they don’t even use axes. Only this…” He made the shape with his hands. “… this toothpick thing. No, we weren’t made from the same stuff as them.” He nodded at Goda, who charged at him again. Another mighty crash.

  “You are being unfair,” said Tungdil, shaking his head.

  “And you are obsessed,” the dwarf countered. “I saw how you were constantly watching them. It was obvious you wanted to talk to them to find out more. It stops you being objective. That’s science for you.”

  “On the contrary. My judgment is extremely objective.” Tungdil wasn’t taking this lying down. “I’m probably the only one in all the five dwarf folks who is looking at them clearly. From everything you say it’s obvious how blinkered your viewpoint is. And you’re one of the few who are more open to new ideas…”

  “And you have the right to judge others?” Ireheart charged Goda, who was steadier on her feet this time. This earned her a nod of respect. And a long gaze right into her eyes. Perhaps overlong.

  She lifted her shield to cut his stare short.

  “I’m not judging anyone.” Tungdil sat sighing over his notes. He was regretting this conversation. He knew it was no use talking to a stubborn dwarf like Ireheart. Every word would be misunderstood. “I’ll speak to Furgas later, to see if I can find out anything else about these creatures’ weak points. We won’t stand much of a chance without that knowledge. None of us—not even you.”

  “We’ll see. My crow’s beak always finds a crevice to latch onto.” Ireheart was offended. “Come on, Goda. We’ll go and practice outside.” She rolled her eyes and followed him.

  But once the others had left the room Tungdil was not able to regain his train of thought. Instead he mulled over Boïndil’s words.

  His friend was right. He was indeed fascinated by the undergroundlings. He knew hardly anything about them apart from their appearance being different from his own. He didn’t know how they lived in the Outer Lands, nor what the values and philosophy of their community might be.

  He stood up and went over to the window to look down onto Porista. Its roofs, smoking chimneys, laundry fluttering on washing-lines all gave an impression of settled permanence. People had found the place they wanted to remain, they had started their families there.

  This all ran contrary to his own feelings. He did not feel at home either with the dwarf folk or with the exiles, or with the humans. Even Balyndis could no longer give him that feeling of belonging; he was a loner, a fighting scholar.

  Or perhaps, deep down, he did not really want that safety, that sense of belonging?

  “Am I destined to be an eternal wanderer? Should I maybe go back to the Outer Lands with the undergroundlings? To help them restore the diamond to its rightful place?” He spoke quietly. “Will I find happiness, Vraccas?”

  He looked at the jug of beer. The alcohol was calling to him, its smell reminding him of nights he had spent under its influence. When drunk he had ceased to quibble and worry.

  Tungdil tried to resist the temptation but still he moved over toward the table. Just as he stretched out his hand to the handle of the jug there came a knock.

  He dropped his hand at once and went over to open the door.

  In the doorway there stood an undergroundling. A woman.

  He had noticed her on the journey. Her skin was as dark brown as a nomad’s and she had kept near him on the march. She wore a beige tunic embroidered with thorny branches, fastened at the front with lacing, but showing part of her breasts. Now he could see her for the first time without the rather intimidating helmet. He stared at her shaven head. He had not been prepared for that. A woman without her crowning glory!

  “May I come in?” she asked him with a smile. Her speech had the attractive lilt of a foreigner’s.

  “Of course,” he said quickly, stepping aside to let her in. She was a hand’s breadth taller than he was. “What message does Sûndalon send?”

  She strolled around the room, stopping to examine the sketches in his little notebook. Her clear blue gaze alighted on the helmet he had drawn. “You’ve drawn mine!”

  “Yes. Should I not have done that?”

  “It doesn’t worry me.” She held out her hand and he noticed a wide scar on it. “I am Sirka.”

  He shook hands with her. “Pleased to meet you. My name you already know, I think.” He waited in vain for her to tell him Sûndalon’s message.

  “It would be strange if I didn’t,” she replied with another smile.

  He cleared his throat. “Forgive me if I was staring just now. The dwarf-women of Girdlegard have a different skin color and they don’t shave their heads. They wear their hair long.” He was feeling awkward.

  “I don’t suppose we have very much in common,” said Sirka. “Sûndalon tells me you’re a scholar.” She took up the little notebook and turned the pages. “You are interested in everything that’s new?”

  “I am.” Tungdil was caught unawares by the dwarf-woman’s behavior—she suddenly stepped toward him, tossing the notebook onto the table.

  She put her hands to his face, and pressed a kiss onto his lips. He did not try to push her away. “I like you very much, Tungdil,” she confessed, running her fingers over his chest. “I would love to show you something new, if you’d let me do that?” There was no doubt what the offer entailed.

  “You undergroundlings indeed have little in common with our dwarf-girls,” Tungdil stated, with the touch of her lips still felt on his own. He had enjoyed the kiss. A great deal.

  So much that this time it was Tungdil who kissed her. His placed his hands on Sirka’s slim hips and pulled her to him. He could smell the intense perfume on her neck, could feel the warmth of her body through the thin tunic. His hands wandered up to the laces of her gown… Then his conscience flared up.

  “No,” he said hoarsely and quickly stepped away. “I belong to another.”

  But Sirka followed him and embraced him. “What does that mean, ‘belong’?”

  He avoided her and put a chair between the two of them. “Sirka, you flatter me,” he said, trying hard to control his feelings and not give in to her urging. “But I am tied to Balyndis and as long as that is so I cannot allow myself to indulge in an adventure like this.”

  She laughed. “Oh, I understand. You people go in for lasting relationships.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, we love for as long as we like. When feelings change, we part. Perhaps for a while, perhaps for ever. It makes life easier, Tungdil. Life is short enough.” Sirka gazed at him. “You’re looking for something new? How would this be: Accompany us to Letèfora. On the way I’ll tell you everything you need to know about our people.”

  “Letèfora is…?”

  “A town. One of many in my homeland. And very different from towns in Girdlegard.”

  “Yes,” he said, without a moment’s hesitation. “That would be delightful,” he added more thoughtfully.

  She laughed and gave him another kiss, running her fingers through his hair and stroking his beard. “That would be delightful,” she repeated as she went to the door. “We shall be seeing a lot of each other, Tungdil. I shall teach you well. The lesson you missed today we can take up again at leisur
e.” She opened the door and left the room.

  Tungdil sat down. He was aflame, with her scent still in his nostrils and the taste of her mouth in his own. Sirka had captured him with her open unaffected manner. It was not only her physical charms he was thinking of. He was looking forward to the lessons she had promised him.

  But first he would send a letter to Glaïmbar and talk to Balyndis. Or, better still, he would write her a long letter.

  He took a sheet of paper and wrote a few lines to Glaïmbar first, sealing the note and laying it on the table in front of him.

  Then he started the letter to his consort Balyndis, ending his relationship with her. Not an easy task, even for a scholar like himself.

  The words would not flow smoothly from the pen. He was struggling. He wrote that he would never be able to make her happy. Not in the long term. Not how she would wish it. And the long term, for his people, was a very long time. He did not want to do this to her.

  Meeting the undergroundling woman was only a prompt for this parting. He had long been aware in himself that things were not as they should be, but he had always sought the reason elsewhere. He had never been more certain than now that Balyndis deserved better than this.

  In his choice of phrasing he was scrupulous to take the blame on himself and not to give her the impression that she bore any responsibility for the failure of their partnership. His lines would affect her harshly, all the same.

  This letter, too, he sealed and laid on top of the note to Glaïmbar.

  There was no going back. The meeting with Sirka brought home to him what was missing in his life: passion. Something new. Scholarship and the spirit of enquiry were his curse. He did not want safety and shelter.

  “Vraccas, what malleable stone did you take when you formed me?” he sighed. He had absolutely no desire to attend the theater performance.

  Girdlegard,

  Kingdom of Gauragar,

  Porista,

  Summer, 6241st Solar Cycle